


Get Some

by femoral



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Auror Harry Potter, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Clothed Sex, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Top Harry Potter, u kno what just butt stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 21:51:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15894831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femoral/pseuds/femoral
Summary: Nonetheless, despite clawing his way back to some semblance of upper-class life, there are still things Draco Malfoy pines for.Namely, a good shag.Betcha can't guess who that good shag is.





	Get Some

**Author's Note:**

> I'm terrible for hearing songs and not getting inspired to write something ssssooooo
> 
> Inspired by Get Some ft Kamille by Ghosted 
> 
> [Listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ag_9MsoErQc]

Draco supposes it was inevitable that he not be successful in the post-war Wizarding world.

It took him a few years (six, to be precise) after leaving Hogwarts to land a steady job with an old potions master who seemed too batty from huffing fumes all his life to know his own name, let alone that of Draco Malfoy.

It pays well enough for Draco to live comfortably in a small flat in Wizarding London, for him to buy himself nice clothes once in a while, maybe a new book or trinket in relation to his field of work.

Before the job it was a nightmare, a time he doesn’t often waste time thinking about, when his father was in Azkaban and his mother wracked with something akin to post-traumatic stress. The time when his family’s vaults were frozen while the Wizengamot trials were taking place.

He certainly doesn’t think about his own brief stint in Azkaban, and he probably never will.

Nonetheless, despite clawing his way back to some semblance of upper-class life, there are still things Draco Malfoy pines for.

Namely, a good shag.

Draco spends his weekends cycling through a handful of gay bars, both Wizarding and Muggle, often with Pansy or Blaise in tow.

He wears those nice clothes that he works damn hard for, he slicks his hair back and once a month pays for the sides and back to be cropped neat and close to his scalp. He pouts, gloss on his lips and on the highs of his cheekbones to look constantly dewy, ethereal, and while he always manages to draw a man to him (and often to either of their beds), it’s never what he wants.

They just don’t do it _right_.

Then again, Draco supposes, he doesn’t even know what exactly it is that he’s looking for.

_______________________________

His weekend routine has, unfortunately, been forced to change.

He and his Master have been invited to a wedding.

Draco does not know the happy bride and groom, nor does he care to, but his Master is apparently related and decided that it would be a good idea for his apprentice (now protégé and heir to his shopfront) to come along and ‘muddle’, as he’d put it.

It could be worse, he thinks. Blaise wanted to try a new club tonight that they’d never been to before and Draco was always apprehensive about going to new Wizarding clubs, especially when he was unsure of their levels of security – nothing has happened to him in a long time, but for a short while after his release from Azkaban it seemed there had been a bounty on his head.

But then again, what if tonight he had found the _one_? It’s been a long week, he thinks, cooped up at work with nowhere to go, no one to see, nothing to do.

He’s as sexually frustrated as ever and there’s a finite amount of times he can jerk off before he chafes his dick to oblivion.

He tries not to think about it.

They’re at the reception now, seated and awaiting their meals. Draco is sitting next to his Master, naturally, close to the wedding party table.

He’s quite bored of it all, quietly sipping at his champagne and watching the hibiscus bud in the bottom of the flute collect bubbles, rolling quietly in its alcoholic grave. His Master is seated to his left, a woman who works for the Daily Prophet at his right, and thankfully she seems to have enough common sense to avoid asking Draco any probing questions about his doomed father or ruined family name.

He lets his eyes wander around the ballroom where the reception is being held, across the empty and quiet dance floor that he’s sure will light up with a thrum of activity after dinner.

The decorations are quite drab, he thinks, yellows and purples and and off-white that is either eggshell or parchment white, he’s not yet decided.

He’s wrinkling his nose at a particularly shoddy centrepiece when his eye catches something starkly familiar.

An unruly shock of black hair atop a stupid square head.

Harry bloody Potter.

He chews the inside of his cheek as he appraises Potter, not yet noticed in his staring. Potter, who has definitely grown up some, with a dark smut of stubble across his jaw, a strong, angular nose like his father’s, and those stupid, vivid green eyes. Draco’s not sure he remembers them being quite so bright.

He’s laughing with the man sat beside him, and there are a few more laugh lines around his eyes now than when they were in high school, but he’s still wearing those ugly round glasses and he still boasts that boyish charm.

Draco watches as Harry settles from his laughter to turn to his food, but not before he glances up, eyes grazing Draco’s.

Draco tries not to jolt with the shock of it and immediately looks down at his dinner plate, running his tongue over one of his canines before he turns to his Master and strikes up inane conversation. He feels the weight of Potter’s gaze leave the back of his head and relaxes some, listening to his Master speak in his strange and lilting way as he slices delicately into his prosciutto-wrapped chicken breast, which does _not_ go well with the champagne at all.

He decides that he doesn’t care, and drains his glass, watching it magically refill the moment he places it back onto the table cloth.

What on earth is Potter doing here?

Draco chews somewhat aggressively as he ponders this, ignoring the smaller voice inside of his skull that tells him Potter could very well be asking the same of him.

It’s been at least two years since he last crossed paths with Harry Potter, and even then it had been short and awkward, bumping into each other in the street with brief niceties exchanged before continuing on their way.

Draco didn’t like seeing anyone from Hogwarts anymore, spare Blaise and Pansy. Gryffindors were especially volatile in their disgust with the Malfoy family, what with their stupid, brutish bravery and general thick headedness.

He definitely hasn’t seen the Weasel since their schooling days, and his only interaction with Granger has been a very rare owl requesting knowledge on specific ingredients or potions, presumably for her work with the Ministry.

He cuts a spear of asparagus into a more manageable mouthful and pulls it delicately off his fork with his incisors, chewing more thoughtfully now.

He supposes he had made the memory of his last meeting with Potter into something it wasn’t, in his mind. Something more awkward and bumbling and abrasive than it had been, when really Potter (quite nicely, might he add) simply asked how he was doing, and seemed well pleased when Draco told him of his profession.

“Always knew you’d end up in potions, you’re bloody good at it,” he’d said around one of his wolfish grins. And then, noticing Draco’s discomfort, he’d clapped him on the shoulder and left with a, “Take care of yourself, Malfoy.”

Draco sips at his champagne and huffs into the flute, his breath leaving spotty fog on the glass.

He simply doesn’t like the memories brought up by anyone from Hogwarts, even though it’s always inadvertent. He doesn’t like to think about the weak, frightened boy that he used to be who hid behind an acidic tongue and petulant temper as some sort of shield.

He’s fully aware that he used to be a right twat, but even now he’s too proud to admit it to anybody but himself.

He licks his lips wetly, pale brows furrowing for a moment. He turns around his shoulder in a manner he hopes is discreet, stealing another glance at Potter.

He’s laughing again, this time disgustingly with a mouthful of food that he washes down with a gulp of lager. Draco nibbles the inside of his cheek again, thoughtful. Sitting here, watching Potter with his friend with the blush of booze beginning to creep into his cheeks and forehead, Draco doesn’t get that sickly feeling he gets when he sees other Hogwarts alumni.

He tries not to think about it too much and places his attention back on his meal.

_______________________________

Draco was right in his earlier assumption that the dance floor would buzz to life once dinner and dessert was said and done. He lived through the boring toasts, the speeches that had the bridal party tearing up and the groomsmen guffawing like geese, drinking his bubbly all the while.

He’s at a different table now, still with his Master nearby, just closer to the dance floor now to better watch the action. Draco does quite like to dance, after all, but he’s decided he’s not yet drunk enough to do so.

And so he sits, elbow leaning quite rudely on the table behind him with his champagne held delicately in his finger tips, foot tapping minutely to the beat under the soft curtain of his powder blue dress robes.

He’s stifling a yawn behind the back of his hand when he notices that Potter is still here.

He’d been trying to forget about him, but now he’s on the dance floor with the group from his table (he’s apparently still good at making friends, then). They’re not following any particular dance, just bopping around and laughing loudly, pint glasses in hand.

Their good mood is quite contagious, Draco finds, a small smile playing about his mouth while he watches Potter.

He certainly has grown up – or rather, filled out. He’s not much taller than he was in high school but now he’s more muscled, having shucked off the outer layer of his robes in favour of moving around more freely. His trousers are well tailored, hugging at the muscles of his thighs and snug around his hips, and Draco wonders who the hell dressed him because looking that fit certainly wasn’t his own doing.

He’s wondering if Potter is still dating the Weaselette (not that she was ever particularly fashionable), married with children, when those green eyes fall to his again.

Draco’s stomach flips as Potter grins at him, well lubricated with alcohol by this point, and says something to his mates before beginning to make his way over.

Draco can barely get his thoughts inline before Potter is pulling a chair over, spinning it quickly on its back leg so that he can sit down beside Draco, overlooking the dance floor illuminated by near-blinding flashes of green and purple light.

“Hello, Malfoy,” Potter says, and he’s sounding very jolly as he leans in and gives Draco some sort of half-arsed half-hug. Draco awkwardly returns it.

“Hello, Potter,” he says politely, voice straining some over the music, and it lacks the acerbic sting it used to carry.

“Enjoying the festivities?” Harry asks, casting his eyes to his group of friends (who seem to have gotten rowdier with his leaving). “You’re not here on your own, are you?”

Draco looks slightly taken aback that Potter, of all people, would be concerned about whether Draco has come to a wedding as a complete singleton. “Yes, the ceremony was quite nice,” he lies. “And no, I’m not. I’m here with my Master, Alatar.”

Harry grins at that, apparently pleased. “So you’re still working in the little potions shop then?” He sips from his pint, pink tongue darting out to wipe the head from his upper lip, and Draco tries not to notice as he nods, eyelids fluttering briefly.

“That’s brilliant!” Harry exclaims, clapping Draco on the knee with a broad, warm hand.

Draco swallows, smiling awkwardly as he takes a rather large mouthful of his champagne. “Thank you,” he says, still polite and as friendly as he can manage. Talking to Potter isn’t exactly like talking to one of his quick weekend fuck-and-forgets.

“Really glad to hear you’re doing well, Malfoy,” Potter says, and it sounds so honest and bright that Draco’s chest tightens some.

“What about you?” Draco asks around the flute of his champagne, eyes on Potter as he swallows deliberately. Surely he imagined the way Potter’s eyes just shifted to the column of his throat, watching the bulge of his larynx bob.

“I’m still with the Ministry,” replies Harry, without missing a beat. He grins at Draco again. “A bit less field work now, though, and a little more time spent in the office. But I reckon that’s how it should have always been, and I just never listened.” He winks.

Draco laughs quietly at that, covering it behind a soft curl of his fingers. “Fancy that, Harry Potter, the Chosen One, not listening to authoritative instruction. Whoever would have guessed.”

Harry laughs then, too, warm and liquid, and then that warm hand of his is back on Draco’s knee. Draco squashes a squeak.

“Well, Malfoy, I guess it’s time I ‘fess up. I must admit that I came over here hoping to ask you for a dance.” He doesn’t really say it as a question, but he doesn’t necessarily make strong eye contact with Draco either, unsure of himself.

“You’d want to dance with me?” Draco asks, slightly shocked, his grip tightening on his glass. How can he be sure it’s not some kind of joke?

“Well, yeah! You’re sat here all on your own, drinking your champagne, and it’s a wedding, and it’s meant to be fun and –” Potter’s tongue is running away from him, spurred by booze and sudden anxiety.

Draco shushes him by placing a hand, feather light, over the one on his knee. He knows Potter won’t take the mickey. Or at least he’s quite sure that he won’t. “Don’t have a fucking aneurysm, Potter. We can have a dance, if you’d like.”

Draco can tell that Potter tries not to squawk at his sudden snark, and then he’s snatching Draco’s hand and pulling him out of his chair. “Brilliant!”

He tries not to roll his eyes and downs his champagne before he follows Potter onto the dance floor.

Their dancing starts off a little awkwardly, somewhat stunted and unsure until Draco’s moving around a little more, feeling more like himself.

It’s not long before he, too, sheds the cumbersome outer layer of his robes, folding them and hanging them neatly on the back of his chair. And now he’s left in a tidy white dress shirt, not dissimilar to Potter’s, except his is better tailored and accented with fine grey pinstripes, so faint they might not even be there.

He tries not to feel scrutinised under Potter’s suddenly wide-eyed gaze as he makes his way back to their spot with a refreshed glass of champagne.

“People are starting to get a bit sloppy,” he tries to explain over the music. “I don’t want my robes to get dirty.”

He’s not sure Potter really hears him but he smiles warmly at him anyway, lifting his hand up to invite Draco into a stupid little spin. Against his better judgement, he acquiesces, allows Potter to twirl him, careful not to slosh his champagne.

And then, suddenly, Potter’s used the momentum from the spin to pull Draco close to him, face to face. Draco’s free hand rests on Potter’s shoulder, Potter’s on his lower back, and they’re both taking hurried mouthfuls of their drinks like it’s some sort of distraction.

“That’s very ballsy of you, Potter,” Draco teases, and _oh Circe_ maybe he’s a little bit too drunk now, pressed up against Harry Potter of all bloody people.

“Is it now?” Potter questions, and it comes out a bit like a growl. He necks the rest of his pint and moves them close enough to the stand where the ‘DJ’ (and Draco uses that term loosely) is playing, putting the empty glass down.

And then both of his hands are on Draco’s waist, thumbing at the softly starched cotton of his shirt.

Draco tries not to look like a frightened lamb as he also throws back the rest of his champagne, knows that the shorter man is watching his throat work around his gulps as he places the empty flute beside Harry’s pint glass.

He looks back at Potter, at the way his skin is now definitely a rosy red, shiny with sweat, how he’s looking at Draco’s mouth and how his tongue swipes across his lower lip.

“Are you just dancing with me because you’re drunk?” Draco blurts, and he knows that he’s only asking because he’s drunk, too.

Potter’s mouth quirks into another grin. “Nah, but it helps.”

And then he’s rising up some, his chest inflating, and presses an alarmingly chaste kiss to Draco’s mouth while their hips sway and grind with the music.

Draco feels like time slows down, like the bass of the music throbs inside his head enough that he can see white behind his eyes. And then he kisses Potter back, this time longer, more meaningful.

One of his hands stays at Potter’s shoulder while the other goes up to scratch lightly at the hair on the nape of his neck, inviting.

Potter breaks the kiss then, somewhat to Draco’s disdain, smiling at him in his stupid goofy Labrador way.

It’s Draco that decides to go for it, throwing himself into the proverbial deep end and internally cursing the way his cock is already showing interest in his trousers.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, and it comes out a bit rougher than expected, a bit _needier_.

“You serious?” Potter asks, having taken a moment to process the proposal. “I dunno, Malfoy—”

“It doesn’t need to mean anything, Potter,” Draco cuts him off haughtily. “We don’t have to pretend that we’re going to be _lovers_.” He tries to keep the sneer out of it, tries to keep from falling into his old ways of protecting his feelings by being an asshole.

Potter seems to ponder it, green eyes boring hard into Draco’s own steely grey, and then he’s grabbing Draco’s hand from the back of his neck and twining their fingers together briefly.

“Fuck it,” he grins.

“Fuck it,” Draco agrees.

They separate to gather their things, Draco quietly telling his Master that he is going to retire for the night and thanking him for the invitation. Harry tells his mates that he’s off, and leaves quickly to avoid the cat calls and backpats that come – they’ve already spotted them snogging on the dance floor, Draco supposes.

He tries not to flush with embarrassment as Potter returns to his side, holding his arm out for Draco to take. “Shall we?” He asks, eyes bright.

Draco only nods in return, another suddenly shy smile on his lips. He makes eye contact with the worker from the Daily Prophet as they Apparate with a _crack!_

_______________________________

Draco can only assume that they’ve Apparated to Potter’s home. They’re in the sitting room, close to the roaring hearth, golden light cast across their features.

“Where exactly are we?” Draco asks, feigning nonchalance as he releases Potter’s arm to peer about the room, somewhat unsteady.

“Twelve Grimmauld Place,” Potter responds, and there’s an air of pride to his voice. Draco notices him toe out of his shoes and remove his socks, so he does the same out of politeness. “Can I interest you in another drink?”

Draco nods from where he’s examining a picture on top of the hearth – the man in it looks starkly like Potter, laughing with a redheaded woman, and so he assumes that it’s Potter’s parents.

“Follow me, then.”

So Draco does, tailing Harry from the sitting room and down a short length of hallway to get to the kitchen.

They’ve both left their robes in the sitting room, draped over one of the arm chairs, and somewhere in the brief wander down the hallway Potter has rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows. Draco tries not to stare, to no avail, as Potter moves about the kitchen, fetching a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

His forearms are lean and wiry, covered with a fine layer of black hair and smattered with scars. The veins running down the muscles are pronounced and very blue on the inside of his wrists. Draco’s mouth suddenly waters as the lewd thought of dragging his tongue across those pulse points pops into his mind.

Harry places the two wine glasses in front of Draco, smirking because he most definitely noticed the ogling. “See something you like?” He teases, removing the cork with a wandless charm and pouring them two small glasses.

“Yes, actually, I do,” Draco answers, matter-of-factly, taking an immediate gulp of wine. “You’ve good taste, Potter.” He doesn’t bother to keep the surprise from his voice.

Potter smiles into his wine glass. “A compliment from Draco Malfoy?” He teases. “What is the world coming to?”

And Draco can’t stand that smug smile on his face, so he’s gripping the front of Harry’s shirt and dragging him in to snog it right off his stupid mug. Harry doesn’t put up a fight. If anything, it seems to kindle something in him, something confident and strong that sends a shiver down Draco’s spine.

Potter’s closes the space between them quickly, his hands coming down to knead at Draco’s arse through his trousers, grinding their hips together. He picks him up, then, chuckling darkly at Draco’s indignant squawk, moving them away from where the wine lies in danger of being spilled.  
He places Draco on the marble counter top (he’s since remodelled Grimmauld Place to be a little less dark and dreary), slotting himself between his thighs.

They rut against each other as they kiss, Draco’s hands finding Potter’s hair and tugging relentlessly. It earns him a sharp bite to his lower lip that makes him groan into Potter’s mouth.

Draco’s hard, painfully so, and he practically mewls when Potter steps away from him some in an attempt to get his attention.

“Shall we take this to the bedroom?” Harry asks, and Draco shakes his head fervently.

“Want to fuck you right here, right now,” he says, knowing he already sounds thoroughly debauched because he’s not been this aroused in Gods know how long.

Potter seems to grunt before launching another assault on his mouth, and this time the kiss is biting, needy and bruising. It’s all clacking teeth and wandering tongues and it’s slippery and too-wet as Harry fumbles with the buttons on Draco’s shirt.  
“Rip it,” he growls against Harry’s mouth, his own nimble fingers flitting down the front of Harry’s chest, popping buttons as they go.

And Potter does.

Draco hears the buttons pinging off the tiled floors around them and can’t help but laugh – he would never, ever let anybody else have ruined one of his shirts like that (even if he can just charm it back into one piece).

He’s quickly distracted by Potter’s hands on his bare skin, thumbing over his nipples before giving them a vicious pinch that makes him moan and spread his legs wider, toes curling against the sides of Harry’s knees.  
“Fuck,” Harry rumbles, his hips snapping towards Draco’s with added vigour. “So fucking sexy, Malfoy, you know that? Drive me fuckin’ wild.”

“Draco,” he corrects with a gasp, fumbling with Harry’s belt buckle because he needs his cock and he needs it _now_. “Call me Draco.”

Harry makes a noise something like a strangled moan as he pulls away from Draco again. He barely gets Draco’s trousers undone before he’s ripping them down and off, throwing them somewhere to the side. Draco’s briefs quickly get the same treatment, and Harry pauses for a moment, staring at his prize.

It’s stunning, really. Draco, all lean elegant white against the light marble counter top, his hair mussed and lips shiny and swollen with biting. Cock hard and weighty against his thighs, flushed a rose petal pink and bouncing faintly in time with his heartbeat.

“Merlin,” Harry breathes, crowding into Draco and kissing him again like he’s a dying man and Draco is the last breath of air he’ll ever get.

They’re getting frantic now, desperate and needy and egging each other on. Harry casts a litany of wandless charms, ones that Draco is by now very familiar with – cleansing, lubricating, so forth – and then he’s pushing a finger into Draco.  
“More,” Draco immediately snarls, his hips undulating to fuck himself needily on Harry’s finger, pale fingers digging into the Auror’s biceps.

Harry obliges, plunging in a second lubed finger and fucking Draco like that. Draco wants to kiss him, really, he does, but he can’t find the brain power to do much more than pant and whine against his mouth.

He lays down against the cool marble, scooting back some so that he’s more supported, rolling his hips down onto Harry’s fingers.  
“Shit,” he gasps when Harry crooks his fingers just right, sending a jolt of lightning through his gut. He bats Harry’s hand away from his cock, shaking his head because he wants to come when Harry fucks him, not now, not early.

“Fuck me, Harry,” Draco says suddenly, eyes shooting open to look down at him. He looks positively bedraggled, his hair as wild as steel wool, eyes unobscured by his glasses that must be somewhere on the counter, lest they be trodden on.

He makes no move, seemingly stunned.

“ _Harry_ ,” Draco says again, this time like a prayer. “I need you to fuck me. Now.”

Harry nods, suddenly losing that slack jawed expression of his and coming back to himself. He lubes his cock and straightens up, pulling Draco roughly down towards him and holding one creamy thigh up with his left hand, using his right to guide his cock home.

He bottoms out in one slow stroke, burying himself down to the bollocks. Draco practically writhes beneath him, one arm thrown across his face like he’s ashamed and the other pressed over the one Harry has on his leg.

“Merlin,” Harry says again, and he feels like he’s on fire.

He thrusts once, experimentally, gauging Draco’s reaction until the blond sneers up at him, “I’m not going to fucking break.”

He can’t hold himself back. He fucks into Draco like his life depends on it, holding at him hard enough to bruise – and he probably will. He can’t stop touching Draco, holding his waist, his thighs, his hips, anywhere he can get his hands on.

Draco feels as though he could cry. It’s good, it’s so fucking _good_ and this is what he’s needed. Harry’s rough and fast and hard but he’s practiced, skilled in the way he wrings noises out of Draco and makes him writhe like a wanton whore.

“Look so good on my cock, Draco,” Harry spits. “Look so good spread out for me.”

That’s going to be Draco’s undoing. He almost yells, one hand coming down to jerk his cock and the other snapping around Harry’s forearm, digging in his manicured nails and definitely not hoping he scratches deep enough to scar.

“I’m going to come,” he wails, his legs drawing up and his toes curling tight, body arching off the marble. “Oh, oh, I’m going to – Harry! _Fuck!_ ”

He practically sobs as orgasm punches the bloody wind out of him, painting his stomach in translucent ropes sent ever further with the still brutal force of Harry’s thrusts.

Draco’s starting to go boneless, his heart rabbiting hard in his chest, staring up at Harry with blown pupils and a bruised mouth, sated smile beginning to blossom there.

“Ah _shit_ ,” Harry gasps, and then he’s pulling out too quickly, leaving Draco’s hole clenching in his wake.  
He jerks himself off onto Draco’s stomach, adding to the mess there, one hand in the sweaty crook of Draco’s knee to hold his leg up.

They stay like that for a while, Harry letting Draco’s legs fall limp so that his hips don’t cramp.

When they begin to move, it’s Harry that initiates it.

He gets them each a glass of water after stepping completely out of his pants and leaving them in a pile on the kitchen floor. Kreacher will collect them, he’s sure.

Draco slides down from the counter top, his bare feet making a soft sound on the tile floor, and he drinks the water gratefully, both because he’s out of breath and his head is swimming with booze.

He charms himself clean, leaning against the counter top and staring blankly into space, dazed and well-fucked, and it takes him a few times to realise that Harry is trying to get his attention.

“Draco,” Harry says, smiling warmly because it’s the third time he’s said his name now, waiting for him to snap out of it.

“Mm?”

“Would you like to spend the night? You don’t have to sleep in my bed if you don’t want to.”

Draco smiles and finishes his water, placing the glass in the sink. “I’d like to spend the night,” he says gently. “In your bed.”

Harry tries not to look too thrilled. He adjusts his underwear on his hips briefly before finding Draco’s for him, oddly trying not to look as he steps into them like he’s going to preserve some of his modesty.

They go to Harry’s room, and Draco picks up a dirty Muggle shirt of Harry’s from the floor and slides into it. It’s got a print of some sports team on it – Draco doesn’t know the sport, nor the people, and he doesn’t care to.

Harry doesn’t bother with a shirt, just drunkenly crawls into bed and beckons for Draco to join him.

He does, languidly crawling across the mattress to flop down with his back to Harry so that they can spoon. Harry’s arm fits naturally across his waist, hand falling lax on the bed sheet, and Draco plays loosely with his arm hair.

He can’t honestly believe his luck. It must be some cruel joke of the universe, the fact that he’s wasted so much of his time fucking strangers beneath the sheets only to find what he so desperately needed in the arms of the Saviour.  
Belatedly, he chuckles to himself because of _course_ it’s Harry bloody Potter that solves his problem. Harry Potter solves everybody’s problems.

Harry huffs a breath into his hair and tightens his arm around him.

_______________________________

When Harry wakes up the next morning, he knows it’s late. A Tempus Charm tells him that it’s 10:33AM. He groans a little, rolls over and feels for the body he knows should be in his bed.

He doesn’t find anything.

His heart sinks down into his gut and he curses himself for thinking that Draco would stay the night.

“Kreacher,” he calls, his voice hoarse with poor sleep and probably still from last night’s escapades. “Please bring me some water.”

The house elf appears with a _pop!_ and in his weathered hands, a silver tray bearing a pitcher of water and a glass.

The elf uses his magic to pour some water for Harry, who takes it gratefully and downs it in one go.

He’s starting on another when the ancient house elf starts to talk, clearing his throat some.

“Kreacher has a message for Master Potter from Master Malfoy.”

He gestures with his long nose at a small piece of parchment hidden behind the pitcher of water. Harry grabs at it, not even trying to hide the anxiety, the nerves.  
He’s almost fully expecting it to be some sick prank, something that’s going to end up in the Prophet – _Golden Boy Saviour Beds Draco Malfoy, Death Eater_.

But it isn’t some snide remark.

It isn’t Draco lifting the curtain on what happened last night to reveal a cackling crowd.

Harry smiles to himself. Stupid git.

_Harry._

_Feels odd writing that._

_I had a few errands to run and did not want to interrupt your morning hangover routine._

_Thank you for last night. I very much enjoyed it._

_Owl me._

_Draco Malfoy_

_x_


End file.
